My Apologies.

I'm sorry that I'm
so dull
and I'm sorry that
I'm tired
and I'm sorry that
I'm only fun
when there's a drink
(or three)
behind me.
I'm sorry that I'd
rather sleep
and I'm sorry that
I prefer books
and I'm sorry that
I sometimes can't
explain how it is
that I feel.
I'm sorry that
I mark my pain
and I'm sorry that
I can't stop
and I'm sorry that it
seems to hurt
not just me but
you too.
I'm sorry that I
can't write that well
and I'm sorry that
I won't give it up
because, if I'm
honest
(for once)
I'm not sorry at all that
I've written about
your eyes
a thousand times.

So, finally, I'm sorry
that
I adore you
and I'm sorry that
you mean so much
but most of all
I'm sorry that
you're the only one
that
I want to spend
all my life
beside.

--Andria.

It's Like Trying To Live Inside A Box

I've been drinking too much, trying to fill the emptiness that's been drilled inside me. I've been sleeping too much, trying to give my life some kind of release, some kind of break for the echo that rings where my soul once lay. I've been eating too much, because I have no self control and I really just want another reason to hate myself. I've been bleeding too much, because I need a way to get out the hatred that boils in my heart for the reflection that I see in the mirror and the voice that I hear in my head. I've been smoking too much because I enjoy destroying myself from the inside out.

I used to be passionate. I used to enjoy things. But now, all those things that used to fill me with purpose have been reduced to the same level as everything else. Dull and eventual and something that will, in some way, cause me to hate myself and the world even more.

Drying tears with an
old handkerchief
and drinking the third 
cup of coffee
from the same mug
without washing. 
Brushing dust
to the floor
and leaving caps off of
pens.
Wearing the same pair of jeans
for the sixth day
in a row,
not bothering with
an umbrella
when it's raining down buckets.

--Andria.

I  hoped to have the will to make a pact to do better this year, to be better this year. I was going to be stronger, I was going to work harder, I was going to think more and do more for myself. I was going to work on those little things called 'self esteem issues' and I was going to find more worth in myself. I was going to care less and I was going to cry less and I was going to trust less, invest more in myself than other people. I was going to be more out-going and daring and I was going to have the nerve to ask her out for coffee. A small part of me wanted all these things.
But I ruined it before the year even started, and now I'm worse off than ever.
Perhaps you, internet troller who probably stumbled upon this post by accident -perhaps you deserve an explanation.

I'd reached my 200 days. That would've been fine, if two days before hand I hadn't taken a sharp object to my skin and drawn blood for the first time.
It was reckless, but you must know I'd tried it before -with blunter objects that didn't quite produce the desired effect, but had gotten me through my breakdown. I'd honestly never ever dreamed I'd do this while I was away. I thought I was going to become more on this trip. I thought this trip was for me and I thought this was the chance I'd wanted to get away from everything and everyone.
Little did I know it was just the opening of the crevasse, the tip of the ice berg of what has been my worst turn yet. It was hell, and I was so so sad. And the 14th of December -my supposed 198 day celebration of my recovery from other control-originated, self-harm techniques and the 1st day I'd visibly hurt myself- was not the beginning of my self-inflicting pain.
For an entire week, every day and more than one instance I would dig my nail into the skin of my wrists and pray for blood. I wanted to strip the skin off of my bones because I hated everything about that place and I hated everything about myself. I don't know what had changed in me. Before going there, I would have dreamt of doing it but I never believed I ever would. I've seen it destroy too many people.
So, my 200 days was nothing to celebrate about. And the day after  I gave into that demon inside of me, the one that had always been there and the one that I'd fought to keep at bay for 201 whole days. I tried and I tried and I pushed that little piece of metal deeper into me, and things seemed to get better because I had control again.
Some days I imagined just giving in and pushing it all the way, and I wouldn't have to worry about the blood because it wouldn't matter. Because I would be dead and it would all be over.
I didn't and I haven't. But that doesn't mean I will, one day.
And so, now, that I am home and I can do things my way -I'm worse. I'm alone, but I'm so alone that I don't want to see anyone. I don't want them to see me and my failure. I'm so disgusting, and I deserve it so much.
I eat a meal a day, and I know it's too much. I know I have to be strong and cut it out all together but I give in and then I go deeper because I'm stupid. I'm running out of room on my wrist, and they really do look like train tracks.

I hope that you, precious reader, are ok. I hope you are fighting your demons.
Because you are worth that. You are worth happiness.

I want to count every freckle on her skin -I'd never get bored. I want to hear every story behind every scar on her body, and I want to write every one down so I never forget. I could write novels about the way her lips look when she smiles, and her eyes in the sunlight.
Forgive me for not being worthy of you. I know it, and I'm sorry.

--Andria.

Unfortunately, although I have been away for some time, I am no better.
No better at all, in fact.
I've gotten much worse, and I'm so weak and tired and my mind is so full of hate. The thoughts never stop, now. And now, I have the option of going deeper. Bleeding more. Through the vein and I could finish it.
I haven't, maybe I won't. I'm not sure anymore.
All I know is that nothing can save me now. I think I've reached the darkest of it.

--Andria.